(un)Dressed for Success

My father-in-law and I competed in archery and marksmanship against guys in camouflage jackets and blue jeans, unshaven faces and ball caps at Thomas Road Baptist Church’s “Beast Feast.” Then we headed into the meeting hall for some wild game meat and all the fixings. Part way through the kickoff of the outreach to unchurched outdoorsmen, Fallwell took the podium in full black suit and his standard red tie. He then bragged about his inability to do anything in clothes other than a suit and red tie, then began to brag about the building in which we were eating—apparently a new edition to his multimillion dollar empire castle.
I should be used to this. We all should be. But I’m too weary and wary to take it anymore: the concept that we dress up for God (that we can impress him). For decades I subscribed to the ideology; so, I understand others will struggle with it. I just assume the 50- and 70-year-old leaders would have passed through the realizations I have.
God made us naked. He didn’t give us clothes to cover our nakedness from him. In fact, we feebly made clothes first to cover our shame; then he gave us something better for that. And religious people have been trying ever since to create more and more layers to hide the nakedness of our true selves.
I know the arguments . . .
“God had strict rules for the priests in the Old Testament for both their dress and tabernacle rituals. We’re all priests now; so that standard has passed to us.” We are not told what non-priests wore to the tabernacle and temple. The priests’ garments were part of the symbolism of the whole sacrificial system. We don’t slaughter sheep and bathe at the church door anymore. I don’t know many pastors that wear boxers, let alone knee length underwear as prescribed for the Levites. And I don’t believe in cherry picking applications and New Testament cross-overs.
“Dressing up for worship communicates reverence.” Then what are you communicating to God the rest of the week? I don’t believe in a line between Sunday and Monday, except on the calendar. Worship is a lifestyle, not a ceremony. We have only two ceremonies prescribed in the New Testament—and neither of them come with clothing suggestions. We reverence “the Lord’s Day” [as if he only gets one each week]—Sunday, with rest and reflection.
“You’d dress up if the President of the United States were speaking.” My pastor is no Bush, and your pastor is no Clinton, let alone Reagan. Most campaign stops in our country have the candidates in shirt sleeves; so I don’t think that sticks culturally, anyway. Besides, it’s not an appointment with God. Corporate worship should be the temporary merging of lives continually living worship. Jenna and Barbara Bush don’t dress up to meet their father, except when they go out together—when what they wear is determined by context.
“You should give your best to God.” Again, what does that mean the rest of your week? And how do you determine best? Most expensive? Most uncomfortable? Most demur? Most fashionable—or, conversely, least trendy? God’s not impressed with our Windsor knots any more than he was with our fig leaves—regardless of the label, in spite of the cost. Nowhere in the New Testament does God ask us to prove anything with our clothes. In fact, it warns against fancy accessories and fabrics.
Besides, I don’t want to be constantly evaluating my wardrobe for “best.” I mean, is it a single outfit, an oligarchy of garments? If the former, then do I wear that every Sunday? Every day? What happens when that outfit is worn or at the cleaners? Do the outfits shift, or do I replace the number one with another number one? Does this apply down to the underwear, too? Hyperbole, I know. But if you use that line of thought, you have to continue with the line or create an artificial criteria not in the Bible.
“We should look different than the world. People should know we’re Christians without us saying a word.” We don’t wear suits for runs to Lowes or WalMart. Even if we did, how does someone know we didn’t just come from the office or court? Should we wear badges like the Mormons? This reasoning is the adjusted Amish thinking that permeates so many of the religious environments of my formative years: be different from culture, so that the culture knows you want nothing to do with their lifestyle. The Pharisees did this. We have no biblical evidence that Christ did. Last time I checked, the Bible condemned just about everything about the Pharisaical lifestyle. But I read a New American Standard.
“You wear suits to make business presentations.” And I’ve swam shirtless with the auctioneers while wearing my neon orange swim trunks and shared some Starbucks hot cocoa in my ski lodge outfit. Clothing comes down to cultural appropriateness. We should add the Bible’s guidelines of modesty to that.
And nothing more.
But church clothes make us feel churchy, godly, sanctified. They let unchurched people know where we’re going on Sunday, so that we don’t have to tell them. They let us determine the spiritual growth levels of maturing believers or separate the castes of leadership and followers. They identify the important people like ushers and deacons and teachers, separating them from the plain sheep. It’s all another litmus test, another artificial holiness.
I’d rather attend a church that’s “come as you are,” instead of “come as you should look.” I prefer that unchurched people who do make it into the building find everything comfortable but the Spirit’s conviction.
I’d rather my neighbors determine my spiritual impact (my reflection of Christ) by my actions rather than my clothes—since that’s how Christ defined neighborly love anyway.
And I’d rather not prop up my self-made assurances with anything but intimacy with the One who lives inside the skin inside my clothes. I’d rather be challenged by the fact that my heart is constantly naked before God.
Besides, it would severely complicate things Sunday morning, when I pray in the shower.